Chapter 5: Her Father's Name
I looked at Greer and waited.
He had been smooth for fourteen years. He was not smooth now.
"Greer," I said. "Who is Frank?"
He glanced toward the door. "Frank Brennan."
"Say it all," I said.
"Regional Vice President," he said. "He oversees eleven properties, this one included. He reports directly to the chief operating officer."
"And Kayla?"
He swallowed. "Kayla Brennan is his daughter."
The room went very quiet.
"His daughter," I repeated.
"Yes."
"She was hired here on whose recommendation?"
"His," Greer said. "He called me personally and asked. I did not argue."
"You did not disclose it to me," I said.
"No."
"To the board? To human resources, in writing, the way policy requires?"
He shook his head. "It was handled quietly."
"By you," I said.
"By me," he said.
I stood up. "Where is she now?"
"In the lobby," he said. "With Derek and security. Clara, let me talk to her first. She is frightened, and Frank is protective."
"He has been here eighteen years," I said. "People listen to him. Right now I want his daughter."
I walked back into the lobby. Kayla sat where security had left her, mascara tracked down both cheeks, her gold pin still perfect. She saw me and started crying again.
"Please," she said. "I already said I was sorry. I did not know who you were."
"You knew who I was ten minutes ago," I said. "You still lied about the suite."
"That was before," she said. "I panicked."
"Are you panicking now?" I asked.
She wiped her face and looked up. Something changed, like a door clicking shut. The tears stopped.
"No," she said. "Actually, no."
"Good," I said. "Then talk to me without them."
"You cannot just fire me in front of everyone and expect me to beg," she said. "Do you have any idea who my father is?"
"I just learned," I said. "Tell me anyway."
"Frank Brennan," she said, and she said it like a shield. "He has been with this company eighteen years. He built this region. Ask anyone. He knows every general manager, every owner, every person who matters."
"Including you," I said.
"I earned my job," she said.
"You were hired on his recommendation and nobody was told," I said. "That is not earning. That is placement."
Her chin lifted. "He told me to call him if anything serious happened. He told me specifically about you."
I went still. "Specifically about me."
"Yes," she said. "He said if Clara Whitfield ever arrives without warning, I should call him immediately. Not Greer. Not Derek. Him. Immediately."
"Why would a regional vice president expect me to arrive without warning?" I asked.
Kayla smiled. "Because maybe he knows you like to test people."
"Do I?" I said.
"You walked in dressed like that," she said, and her eyes dropped to my coat, my sneakers. The contempt came back easily. "You wanted someone to fail."
"I wanted a room for my son," I said. "You supplied the failure on your own."
"Call my father," she said. "Please. He will explain why that instruction exists. He will explain a lot you do not know about your own company."
Greer stepped in fast, a hand half raised. "Kayla. Stop."
"Why?" she said. "She fired me. What else can she do?"
"Stop talking," he said.
"She should know," Kayla said. "She should know you have been calling him too."
Greer's face drained. "That is enough."
I turned to him. "Calling him about what, Greer?"
"Nothing she understands," he said.
"Try me," I said. "You buried eleven complaints to protect a culture. Was the instruction to call Frank about culture too?"
"No," he said, too quickly.
"Then what?"
He looked at Kayla, furious and trapped. She was still watching me with that careless confidence, the confidence of a girl who believed a powerful father made her untouchable. Both roads out ran through the truth.
"There are financial issues at this property," he said.
"What kind of financial issues?" I asked.
"Vendor payments that do not reconcile," he said. "Staffing accounts that were charged twice, sometimes three times. Guest compensation funds that were approved and never reached the guests."
My mother had built those funds herself, so no wronged guest would ever have to beg.
"How much?" I asked.
"I do not have a clean number."
"Give me the unclean one," I said.
He exhaled. "Possibly several million dollars."
The lobby piano had stopped. Somewhere far off, Jack was laughing in the dining room, safe and oblivious with his fries.
A culture problem in one hotel I could fix before morning. Money moving through corporate accounts could rot everything my mother built.
Kayla laughed then, softly, almost kindly.
"You walked in here thinking this was about a hotel room," she said.